


The Human Inside

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Threesome, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Guilt, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Multi, References to Suicide, Rimming, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock risks his life. John saves it.</p><p>Both men are never the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Close Call

The lift had shook and shimmied. John had known Sherlock shouldn't have gotten into it.

"The lights are on, John," he had said.

"Yes, Sherlock," John had told him, "but the damn thing is falling apart! It's not safe! Let's just find the stairs."

"You mean the stairs that collapsed from the third floor landing down?" countered Sherlock as he held what was left of the wooden door open so John could see for himself. Rubble blocked the entrance so badly that the door barely opened enough for a grown man to get his head through, never mind the rest of him.

"Then let's just wait for Lestrade," John had said practically, "He can get the fire department here and we can get a ladder up to the fourth floor.

"Lestrade," Sherlock had said with a huff of impatience. "We could be here for ages waiting on that poor excuse for--"

"Sherlock – Don’t!" John had said in a warning voice. That was when Sherlock just stormed toward the lift, stepping carefully on the metal flooring and closing the wrought iron doors on John. The whole lift was rusty, but the floor platform was partially rusted completely through and flaked away in huge chunks as Sherlock tread upon it.

John had said: "Dammit, Sherlock!" just as he pressed the button to start up the lift. There was a horrible grind of gears above and with a loud squeal of protest, the lift had risen in the air. John had watched Sherlock through the rusted ironwork of the lift cage until he had disappeared from sight above him, the holes in the floor had revealed only hints of his presence from below.

John had risked a glance up to see how high the lift had managed to travel. First level… second level.... Slowly but steadily, the machine ground on. John had gotten coated in rust flakes as it made its slow progress.

And then the damn thing shut down completely. Sherlock was currently trapped in a dodgy lift several stories in the air.

John called up, "Sherlock! Are you alright?"

John's phone buzzed. Sherlock texted to him:  
Of course I am. Stuck between levels 3 and 4. - SH

I'm calling Lestrade. - JW

Go ahead. I'm checking for an escape hatch. - SH

Don't you DARE! - JW

Come up and stop me. - SH

God damn it, Sherlock! Stop! - JW

There were several seconds of silence and John heard metallic creaking coming from above. A shower of rusted metal fell to the ground floor at John's feet.

"Christ almighty, Sherlock!" cried John. This was by far the most reckless thing that man had ever done in his life -- short of doing drugs, that is.

There was more silence above. As the seconds ticked by, John got more and more anxious. "Sherlock, please talk to me!" said John, "Please!"

John's phone buzzed:  
Will you stop whinging? I'm fine. - SH

Thank God! Did you get out? - JW

No. Dissapointingly. -- SH

No hatch? - JW

Not as such, no. - SH

Curious that it wouldn't have one. Why not? - JW

Probably because the hatch that is here has rusted shut. - SH

John looked up the shaft as if Sherlock could see his glare of annoyance.

Sit there. Try not to move about. That thing is shedding rust like mad. I'll call Lestrade. - JW

Fine. - SH

John smirked. He could see Sherlock pouting. He was foiled.

More rust began to fall, this time in a huge shower. Whole chunks of flooring came down the shaft.

What the hell are you doing?! - JW

Relax John. - SH

John thought for a moment at this and then typed: No. - JW

No response came back to that, just more rust from the shaft.

John shouted, "Sherlock!"

There's more than one way to exit a stuck lift, John - SH

You're not prizing open the doors, are you? - JW

No, John. The doors face solid concrete. It wouldn't help. - SH

So... what the fuck are you doing, Sherlock?! - JW

Trying the floor. - SH

It took John a few moments to absorb this information. He was 'trying the floor'? The floor of the damn thing was rusted through in places, gaping holes that led... down the fucking shaft!

"Sherlock! Don’t' you dare! Don't you move! Jesus, Sherlock! It's not worth your life!" shouted John. He was practically in a blind panic. If Sherlock fell, he'd break his legs at best; at worst... John didn't want to contemplate it. All that rust falling down on top of a man with huge open wounds... The whole rest of the lift following it... It would be horrible. The panic rose in John once more and he shouted again as a new rain of rust came down the shaft: "Sherlock Holmes! You bloody well stay where you are, God damn it!"

Calm down, John. I can't make the jump required. - SH

John breathed a sigh of relief. He felt a wave of nausea creep over him. If he had lost Sherlock... no... no. Sherlock is fine. For now. John squatted beside the lift shaft and placed his head between his knees to alleviate the dizziness.

Several minutes passed in silence. John calmed himself and watched for more rust. There was none. Sherlock had actually given up. John pulled out his phone to call Lestrade. It buzzed with another text from Sherlock: Bored. - SH

Just concentrate on the facts of the case. That should keep you occupied. - JW

Already have done. Still bored. - SH

John sighed. Sherlock recklessly trying to kill himself was much worse than Bored Sherlock, but not by a lot.

Tell me your deepest secret. – JW

What? – SH

Re-read my last text. – JW

Ha. Ha. … No. – SH

Why not? – JW

Because no. – SH

I’m trying to keep you occupied. Humor me. – JW

I’m not doing that to stay occupied, John. – SH

Well… you could tell me about your childhood. – JW

ABSOLUTELY NOT. – SH

Then tell me your biggest secret. Or your greatest fear. Whichever. – JW

Why? – SH

Because you’re my best friend and I want to know. I’ll tell you mine. – JW

Go on then. – SH

No. You first. – JW

I’m not saying anything more until you reveal yours first. – SH

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” muttered John.

Dying alone. – JW

That’s your greatest fear? – SH

Yes. Now you. – JW

But we all die alone, John. – SH

I realize that we technically do, but it’s still a fear. I just don’t want to be the only one in the room when I go. I want someone to be there with me. Preferably someone I like or even love. – JW

There was a long pause at this revelation.

Your turn. – JW

Sherlock must have shifted his position, because there was another rust shower falling over John’s shoulders. Suddenly, there was a sound like crunching and something overhead snapped. A huge chunk of the floor came careening down the shaft. John heard Sherlock shout a warning and he got up in time to avoid a slab of rusty metal from landing at his back inside the cage frame.

“Holy Christ!” said John. He ran back to the shaft opening and yelled up: “Are you alright, Sherlock?”

John’s phone buzzed:  
I’m fine but I seem to have lost one half of my flooring. – SH

Looking up the shaft, John could make out Sherlock’s top half due to the size of the hole in the flooring. Fortunately, the two crossed I-beams that made up the main support of the floor and which formed a giant “X” connecting all four corners of the lift, seemed to be holding firmly in place. As long as Sherlock stayed in that one corner, or walked along the diagonal beams, he should be okay. The only risk now would be the whole lift coming back down the shaft.

This is stupid. I have to do something. – JW

I thought you called Lestrade. – SH

Not yet. I’ve been dealing with you and the coronary you handed me since you’ve gotten yourself stuck up there. – JW

There came another sound from the shaft just then. It was distinctive. It was awful. It was the high-pitched whine of steel cable snapping free – strand by strand. A light shower of rust accompanied it, but it didn’t stop like the other incidents. John knew that they were out of time. He had to act now, or Sherlock would most certainly perish.

Feverishly, John looked around. At first, he didn’t know how to help Sherlock. But he had been living and working with the mad genius for over a year now and had managed to pick up some rudimentary skills – or so John thought.

In a dusty corner, half hidden by a canvas bag, a thick cord of hemp rope poked out from underneath. John raced to it. It was as thick around as the diameter of two of his fingers and it was about thirty feet long. It was not frayed either, which was a mercy. John coiled it between his hand and around his elbow as quickly as he could. He slung it over his head, draping it over one shoulder and under the other so that it crossed his chest, leaving his hands free.

Now… how to get to Sherlock? He’s trapped between levels three and four with the only access out being through the floor. So, how to get to level three? Of course! How stupid!

John raced outside and around the building. The building was fairly old – about fifty years or so – but it had been retro-fitted for electricity as well as cooling and heat, therefore it had to have a fire escape. John found it on the east side of the building. It was rusty as well, but this structure seemed in better shape. John wondered idly why Sherlock didn’t think of using the fire escape ladders as a reasonable means for attaining the fourth floor.

But there was no time to dwell or speculate. Every second that went by meant Sherlock was closer to death’s door. John took a flying jump from the top of a rubbish skip and caught the bottom of the retractable ladder. Once lowered, he climbed swiftly to the third floor with a minimum of trouble, even though the structure had pulled free from its concrete moorings in places. John busted out the window with his elbow, being careful not to cut himself as he unlatched the window itself.

He raced to the shaft and looked up. The lift had shimmied its way down a few feet and was threatening to slide down even further. If it went too far, John would have to go down another floor to see if he could help Sherlock from there. Unless of course, the steel cable holding the lift snapped entirely. Then it was quits.

John found a metal column about twenty feet away from the shaft opening and securely tied one end of the rope to it. He tied the other end of the rope to his own waist and kicked, shoved, and pulled the rusted safety gate open, exposing the shaft.

“Sherlock!” said John, leaning out into the void, “Jump!”

Sherlock leaned down and John saw his eyes widen in surprise then narrow quickly. Sherlock was kicking himself for not thinking of the fire stairs. “Stupid! Stupid!” he muttered.

“Never mind that now,” said John, knowing exactly what Sherlock was thinking for once, “Just fucking jump!” He held out his hands and leaned into the shaft as far as he dared. “Come on!”

Sherlock positioned himself as best he could. Every move he made caused the entire lift to shimmy which caused a new round of that sickening sound of steel cable stretching beyond its capacity. Sherlock crouched over the empty space left behind by the crumbling flooring. Balancing on one of the cross-beams, he reached out and grabbed the other cross-beam. He needed to be able to not just jump down, but to swing out from his perch in order to grab John’s outstretched hands.

The car lurched once more and Sherlock took that as he cue. He let his feet drop and swung by his hands toward John. It wasn’t enough. John grabbed for Sherlock and caught him, but the man’s body weight was more than his balance would take. The two men went down the shaft together, clinging tightly.

Pain shot through John’s underarms as the rope he had tied about his waist was jerked violently upward. It took all his strength to hold his arms down. His bad shoulder complained but he held Sherlock with such ferocity that there was no way the detective was going to be dropped. Even when the two men struck the concrete side of the shaft, John’s grip never wavered. For his part, Sherlock clung to John instinctively, clawing at his back as well as the rope that held them both over the two and a half story drop.

Cable continued to snap and strain above them. They were both covered in rust. The lift was going to come down whether Sherlock was a passenger or not. And now they would both be turned into so much toothpaste at the ground floor landing if they didn’t get out of the way.

“Climb!” said John in a muffled voice, his face buried in Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock didn’t need any more prompting than that. He reached up and hand over hand, lifted himself to the rope until he was up it and inside the third floor opening. He turned and pulled on the rope, effectively hauling John up. John put his feet out and walked up the side of the shaft. It was the only way to effectively aid Sherlock’s attempts at getting him out of the path of all that metal.

John was almost there when the lift gave out a noise like thunder and the cable screamed its last hurrah in a quick staccato. John just cleared the shaft when the metal mess came tearing toward them to the ground floor below. Sherlock had pulled on John with such severity that John wound up lying on top of Sherlock in a heap.

Both men turned to see the lift breeze past them and looked to one another waiting to hear its final crash. When it came, rust was everywhere in a gigantic cloud. Instinctively, John wrapped his hand and arm around Sherlock protectively, placing his chest almost over the detective’s face. It was like that in Afghanistan during a firefight. He had to hover over his patients as he operated on them to protect them from further injury when the bombs shook the dust from the rafters or the dirt from the ground.

When it all subsided, John pulled back, his face flushed, adrenaline pumping away. Sherlock and John stared at each other for a very long moment, taking in every detail of each other’s features. They had never been so physically close. It struck John quite suddenly just how close they had both come to losing one another forever. John, overwhelmed with the moment, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and hugged him.

“I thought I’d lost you,” said John impulsively into his ear. “Jesus, Sherlock. I really thought was going to lose you.” John felt Sherlock awkwardly pat John’s back. He pulled back to look at the detective who had somehow found the emotions roiling up in John utterly fascinating. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up in a smirk and John smiled.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s mouth and that was the only warning he got before Sherlock placed a warm kiss on his mouth. It was longer than the type John usually reserved for his granny, but it was just as chaste. John’s eyes flew open at the initial touch, but as soon as he relaxed into it, it ended.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said. John stared.

“Um… I should get up, shouldn’t I?” said John after a pause.

“If you like,” said Sherlock, that smirk still playing about his lips.

John hesitated only a moment before rolling off of Sherlock and sitting up. As Sherlock sat up, John looked askance at him. That was weird – even for Sherlock. John wasn’t altogether uncomfortable with kissing Sherlock -- and that was even weirder. He shook it off.

“Fourth floor?” John asked.

“Fourth floor,” Sherlock replied.

They got up and headed toward the fire stairs. The two of them were coated in rust and filth. John could feel it all over his skin. He fancied that even his eyelashes were dusted with the stuff.

Sherlock could hear him thinking. He glanced down at John from the corner of his eye as John declared: “When we get back, I’m having a hot shower. Hot as I can stand it.” He held his hands before him and looked pointedly at Sherlock. “And perhaps a tetanus shot.”

 

~080~

 

Sherlock was done with his shower and in comfortable clothes in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street when John came downstairs. John wore his robe over some old sweatpants and socks. He sighed happily as he sat in his overstuffed chair and picked up the newspaper.

“Thank you again, John,” said Sherlock from his leather-bound chair opposite. He had his violin by the neck and balanced on one knee, the bow resting on one shoulder.

“What?” said John. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Sherlock,”

“And I’m sorry about the kiss too,” said Sherlock. “Honestly, it was a spontaneous thing.”

“I understand,” said John flipping the page of his paper.

“You do?” asked Sherlock. Nervously, Sherlock got up, dropped his instrument in the vacated seat and walked to the window.

“Of course,” replied John calmly, looking up from his paper, “You were in a dangerous situation. You escaped by the skin of your teeth. It’s only natural to express gratitude. It’s the human condition.” John got up and walked to Sherlock.

Sherlock managed to make eye contact with John and said bravely: “I know you may not believe me when I say it, but I really am human.”

“I know you’re human, Sherlock,” said John, placing a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “It’s just that you’re not that adept at navigating… the people thing. It’s ok.” He smiled wryly at Sherlock. “Besides, it’s not as if I haven’t saved your life before.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to grin. “I seem to remember a cabbie…”

“Yes yes…,” said Sherlock. “But this time was different. You held onto me for dear life – bad shoulder and all.” Sherlock tentatively reached out to touch John’s left shoulder. “How is it, by the way?”

“Oh,” said John, reaching up to touch the joint, “It’s fine. A bit sore, that’s all. No lasting damage, thank heaven.”

“Based on the angle and my weight,” Sherlock continued, “you could have dislocated both of your shoulders doing what you did. No doubt you have bruising. Perhaps even broken ribs.” As he listed out all of the harm John could be experiencing, Sherlock noticed his rate of alarm rising. He had hurt John because of his recklessness and stupidity. Sherlock’s gut suddenly twisted.

“Honestly, Sherlock,” said John trying to play it all off, “I’m fine. All’s well that ends well and all that.”

“Show me,” said Sherlock.

“What?” said John. “Really Sherlock. It’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

“Why not? I want to see, John.”

“No, Sherlock,” said John. “Besides, who’s the doctor here?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “Call it an effort in the name of science. You know how ligature marks intrigue me.” John stared at him. Sherlock added a quasi-sincere: “Please?”

John shook his head and undid his robe’s belt, turning around. He dropped it from his shoulders and draped it over the back of Sherlock’s chair. The marks that showed were just underneath both of his armpits were red and raw and just starting to show purple bruises. John was trying to soften the blow of what he knew were fairly ugly injuries from his best friend, but of course, Sherlock was far too well versed in the ways of damage to human flesh through trauma.

“Turn around, John,” said Sherlock.

John turned slowly and Sherlock could barely contain a look of hurt surprise. John could see him struggle to tamp down his rising horror. Sherlock swallowed hard and reached out cool fingertips to graze John’s wounded flesh. There was a red rope mark stretching across his chest impressed into his skin with purple bruising blossoming out from it.

“It could have been worse,” said John. “If I wasn’t wearing at least three layers, I could have skinned off huge chunks of my chest and fractured several ribs. As it is, it’s just bruising and a mild impression from the fibers of the rope. It’ll heal.”

“But I did this to you,” said Sherlock mournfully.

“You didn’t see it happening,” said John. “You couldn’t have predicted that exact predicament… could you?” John frowned. “Could you?”

“I could have done,” said Sherlock, “if I hadn’t gotten so preoccupied with tracking down the evidence.” Sherlock let his head hang. He hoped John would think it was dropped in thought, but in his heart he knew he wasn’t fooling the doctor any. He was ashamed. His head came back up and found John’s concerned blue eyes. “You… are,” he began awkwardly. These were words that he had to get out. He just wasn’t that good at it. John was right: he was complete rubbish at the people thing.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” said John softly. It was embarrassing to see the genius struggle.

“No, John,” Sherlock said, “You have to know… I mean… You must know.” Sherlock’s eyes were pleading. “You are the most precious person in my life.”

John smiled at him. “And you’re mine,” he admitted sheepishly. “You know, you’ve saved my life every single day that I’ve known you.”

Sherlock marveled at this. “I knew that you needed a push,” he said, “but I had no idea… Every day?”

“Every day,” said John. Sherlock’s fingertips traced the bruise pattern gently, his touch feather-light.

“I am so sorry, my great friend,” he said softly. John thought he could see tears welling in the great man’s eyes. It was too much. John took him into a hug, his arms wrapping around his chest. Sherlock held John to him, burying his nose in John’s freshly shampooed hair.

The only thought John had was: what the hell?

John leaned away from Sherlock and placed a small but intent kiss on the man’s mouth. Sherlock seemed to be in need of the reassurance and it’s not as if John minded. Sure, it wasn’t their usual behavior, but it was appropriate: an act of kindness for an amazing friend and loyal companion.

Soft lips melded together as both men relaxed into the kiss. Given in friendship and as a source of comfort, the feeling shifted to cause a slow heat to develop in John’s groin. But this was not what it was supposed to be.

John didn’t want to take advantage of an obviously emotionally compromised Sherlock. He broke the kiss as softly as he could and opened his eyes. Sherlock took a moment to open his and he softly reached up to stroke John’s face.

“Don’t worry, old friend,” said John. “I’ll be fine.”

Of John's recovery, Sherlock had no doubt. He only wondered about his own.


	2. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to shield John from the dangers of his occupation.
> 
> And John is made of kittens, jam, and rage... but the rage is winning.

A week later two men stood outside a warehouse in Chelsea in the chill of a winter night. Their breath formed clouds in the air as they spoke softly to one another.

“You wait here, John,” said Sherlock, “I’ll go inside. There can’t be many of them and I only need to take pictures.”

“No,” said John flatly, “no way in hell I’m going to let you walk into that warehouse and sneak about while I sit out here freezing my arse off waiting for gunfire. These men are arms dealers, Sherlock! They aren’t your average husband-who-killed-his-wife-for-shagging-the-gardener! You have no weapon. I do. End of.” John brandished his Browning for a moment before gripping it in two hands and pointing it at the ground. He stared at Sherlock, hoping that the detective would pick up on his determination in the inky gloom.

Sherlock let out a sigh. “I’ll be fine, John,” he said, “Your worry is needless.”

“The last time you said that, I wound up with a bruise across my chest,” said John.

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. A pang of what Sherlock had come to understand as guilt ran through him like a wave. He calculated quickly and decided that it would be alright to take just a moment’s time. Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands and kissed him gently. It was warm and sensual. John could never get over the perfection of Sherlock's kisses. Jesus, he almost dropped his damn gun. Their lips lingered for more than a few seconds before Sherlock broke the kiss. “Fine,” he said, “We do this your way. Let’s wait for Lestrade.”

You could have knocked John over with a feather. “What?” he asked in a harsh whisper. “Who are you and what have you done with my mad detective?” Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. “No, really,” John continued. “Who the hell are you? Is this—Is this because of what happened last week? Because if it is—“

“Of course not, John,” said Sherlock, “Don’t be stupid.”

“Well,” said John, “I’m just reporting what I see here. You don’t want me backing you up. You want to go in alone. Then you don’t want to go in at all when I won’t stand down. And you want to wait for Lestrade?” John looked at Sherlock in earnest. “Are you sure this had nothing to do with last week? I mean… I know I brought it up, but Jesus, Sherlock! Just because I got a bit banged up doesn’t mean that I’m scared now. Let’s go in there! Let’s do this. These guys won’t stick around and the pictures mean making the case. It’s too important for the security of the nation—“

“Shhh!” said Sherlock suddenly. There was a car pulling up in the distance with more behind. Lestrade jogged over to them.

“Everyone still inside?” he asked.

“Yes, Detective Inspector,” said Sherlock coolly. “If you have a warrant, they’re all yours.” 

“I do indeed, Sherlock,” said Lestrade as he held the document up in the faint moonlight.

 

~080~

 

John was honestly disappointed to be robbed of that opportunity. He had thought Lestrade and his men would have taken a bit more time to get to Chelsea. He was glad to be wrong, because it did save Sherlock putting his neck on the line once again, but the argument they had had before going in stuck with him.

The doctor sneezed as he hung up his coat in 221B. “Ugh… must be catching a cold,” he said as he wiped his nose with a tissue.

Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen without a word and began preparing tea. Every good Englishperson always answers illness with tea. It’s tradition. But John was stunned by the detective once again; Sherlock never made tea. Ever. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he remarked: “It must have been a combination of last week and tonight’s activities. A cold virus, as you know, takes up to three days to properly manifest itself. If we take into account all the past week’s activities and the relative strength of your immune system – which is fairly admirable – I think we can come to that very conclusion: too much activity in cold damp places.”

John let out a small bark of laughter at this. “Perhaps I should go on holiday then,” he said, “because the last time I checked, the whole of England was cold and damp – especially at this time of the year.”

“Perhaps you should,” said Sherlock, turning back to prepare the tea. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock but said nothing and sat in his chair.

He brought it to him in his favorite mug, prepared just as he liked it. Leave it to Sherlock to get John’s tea just right the first time making it. John thanked Sherlock, took the mug in his hands and warmed them around it, closing his eyes at the sensation. As he let out a sigh of contentment, he felt a blanket being draped across his legs. John looked up curiously. “So my mad detective hasn’t returned then?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the sarcasm. He stalked across the room and sat on the sofa, opening up a book on decomposition. John opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. After all, he was obviously still feeling guilty about last week’s lift adventure. All this was very new to Sherlock. And the affection he was being given by Sherlock was odd too – even for Sherlock.

John wondered idly whether or not he should just have it out with him about this. But no. Perhaps it was too soon. Perhaps he should give Sherlock time to adjust to the idea of John helping him out again. Besides, John still had the bruise across his chest. It was going away slowly, splotching with yellow and brown, but it was still present. John decided that once it healed completely, if Sherlock was still acting this way, he would have a good firm talk with the over-grown stroppy teenager.

“Oh good God,” said Sherlock. John turned to him to see him get up and go off to his room. “I can’t read when you’re thinking that loudly, John. Kindly stop it.”

As he heard the bedroom door slam home, John muttered: “Oh, Sherlock! There you are! Long time no see.”

 

~080~

 

“Will you need me?” asked John.

Sherlock thought a moment as he put his coat on. “No,” he said, “I think I can handle this one. I’m only going to the Yard.”

“Right then,” said John, settling back into his chair and shaking out the paper to resume his read. As soon as the front door slammed shut, John set the paper down in his lap, crumpling the pages violently. This was the seventh call in nine weeks that Sherlock had told John he wasn’t needed. Statistically, that just didn’t add up. He always needed John’s medical opinion in the past.

At first, John was just disappointed. Then he felt useless. But now, he was becoming angry. There had to be some explanation. The only one John could come up with was that Sherlock was pulling the wool over his eyes. John pulled out his mobile and called Lestrade.

“Lestrade,” said the DI.

“Hello Greg,” said John.

“Oh hello, John!” said Gregory Lestrade, “Haven’t seen you in ages! How’ve you been keeping, mate?”

“Fine,” said John, “Just fine. Had a bit of a cold last month, but fit as anything now.”

“Good to hear,” said Greg, “You and Sherlock on your way then?”

“Yeah… About that…,” said John sheepishly. He really hated sneaking about behind Sherlock’s back, but if Sherlock wasn’t playing fair… “Look, I know you’re on a case and Sherlock is on his way, but I was wondering…”

“What is it?” said Greg. His voice held concern.

“Could you tell me if you think I’ve been needed on Sherlock’s past few cases?” asked John. “He’s been saying that my services aren’t required, but I’m getting the feeling that he’s ditching me intentionally. I just want your opinion.”

“Matter of fact,” said Greg, “I thought we could have used you on the past five. This one, not so much; it’s more of a puzzle. No dead body, just a theft. Strange that he didn’t include you on the last few, though. He kept saying you were either ill or working.”

“I see…,” said John, “Thanks, Greg. I appreciate the information. Don’t tell him we spoke, will you? He might see it as a bit of a betrayal.”

“That’s rich!” said Lestrade, laughing, “He’s betraying you for weeks and not batting an eye, but you make one sneak phone call and it’s a fucking state secret. Nice.”

“I know, I know,” said John, “But you don’t have to live with him.”

“No I don’t, thank Christ,” said Lestrade.

He spoke with Lestrade a few more minutes before hanging up. John set down his phone and listened to the settling of the house to the rhythm of the kitchen clock. He may as well be back in his post-army bedsit if this was how it was going to be. Hopefully his chat with Lestrade would change that. But for now…

John rose from his seat and went to the bathroom. He removed his jumper and shirt and closed the door. A full-length mirror showed him that the bruise was now completely healed. He checked under each arm. The skin there was also mended. He rolled his shoulders and tested his range of motion in the joints. All was well. He was whole again. And that meant that Sherlock’s time was up.

John was glad he called Lestrade. Next time Sherlock left on a case, John would have an ace in the hole. And he would be ready.

John re-dressed and went back to the sitting room to continue his book. He felt like a spider in his web, just waiting… and biding his time.


	3. Reconciled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally has it out with Sherlock.
> 
> And then he just has Sherlock.

Tate Gallery, 2 dead, come soonest. – GL

“It’s Lestrade,” said Sherlock. “Must be off.”

“Will you need me?” asked John for the millionth time, it seemed.

“No, I think not,” Sherlock replied. His reply too was made seemingly for the millionth time. John sighed as the front door closed with him on the wrong side.

He waited. He didn’t have to wait long. His phone buzzed and he glanced at the text from Lestrade. He smirked at the screen and moved quickly to grab his coat and get out the door. A taxi rounded the corner and John said: “The Vic and Albert Museum please. And as quickly as humanly possible.”

The misdirection was all part of John and Greg’s plan. Halfway there, John texted Greg. As soon as Greg got that text, he was supposed to text Sherlock with the correction on the location. Of course, Sherlock would be angry, but Lestrade could always blame his lack of sleep. It was easy to look exhausted around Sherlock.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” said Greg as he pulled up in the cab. “Been working a double and now this.”

“Lestrade,” said Sherlock shortly, “you disappoint me.” His coat flapped behind him as he stalked off. Greg grabbed his elbow as he jogged to catch up. They walked along the halls of the museum briskly, their strides matching. Sherlock looked at Greg’s hand and then at Greg, aghast.

“Listen,” said Lestrade, “I’ve never made that kind of a mistake before, have I?”

“No,” said Sherlock, “But I doubt that after today you will ever do it again.”

“I think you may be right,” said Greg as they both came around the corner. Sherlock froze. Greg watched his expression carefully as Sherlock stared at John Watson kneeling over one of the murder victims. Slowly the detective’s gaze drifted to Lestrade who gave him a cool look. “How can I ever make it up to you, Sherlock?” said Greg, batting his eyelashes playfully, a grin springing up on his features.

“You--,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah,” said Greg, “I did.” He turned to face Sherlock and reached out to touch the lapel of his coat. “You’ll find that I’m full of surprises.” He winked at the gobsmacked detective and walked away.

John stood off to the side of the main crime scene waiting for Sherlock to explain. He could see Sherlock’s mouth press into a firm line as he walked toward him. He stopped just a few feet away and regarded the first victim’s body at a distance.

“What?” asked John, “No ‘hello’?”

“Hello, John,” said Sherlock begrudgingly, his eyes never leaving the crime scene.

“Care to know the details of the victims? I’ve seen them both and have a good idea as to how they died,” he asked quietly.

“No,” said Sherlock.

“No?” said John, genuinely puzzled. He thought that Sherlock would just fall into the details of the case and worry about confronting him later, but once again, the mad genius surprised him.

‘No, John,” said Sherlock. “I want to know why you’re here when I told you that you were not needed.”

John regarded the victim shoulder to shoulder with his friend. “I came here – using subterfuge – because I was being pushed out by you, you git.” Sherlock sighed audibly. “Oh don’t you bloody give me that,” John continued, “You’ve been pushing me out of the way for weeks now. I’ve spoken to Greg,” and here Sherlock let out a snort of derision, “and he told me that I could have been useful to you for the past five cases or so. He was wondering why I wasn’t showing up.”

“John, I—“ began Sherlock.

“No,” said John, pointing a finger up at the detective. “You’re going to listen to me, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock stared at John, shocked. “You are never to push me away again, do you understand me?” John was heatedly angry and as he went on, his speech became more and more passionate. “You are to treat me as an equal, a colleague. You are to never leave me behind and go where I can’t follow, no matter the danger, no matter the circumstance. Because while you may not see your life as very worthwhile and can afford to take chances left and right, I happen to see things very differently. You are important to me. The work is important too, but you are even more so. I don’t know how it happened or why, but you need to understand, Sherlock Holmes, that if you die and I’m not there trying to stop it…” John paused for a breath. He considered not finishing the sentence. No. Sherlock needed to hear it all. “If you… die. And I’m not there trying like hell… I fear that I’ll end up swallowing a bullet.”

Sherlock’s glare turned into sick horror. “John…”

“So… there,” finished John. “Now, let’s focus on the case at hand, shall we?”

 

~080~

 

“Did you mean what you said?” asked Sherlock.

“You mean about swallowing a bullet?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock quietly. There was a long pause. The only sound that could be heard was the white noise of the cab as it glided through the streets of London on its way back to Baker Street.

“I have to admit that the thought of life without you has driven me to certain… other thoughts,” said John. “I have no idea if I would ever actually do it, but the thought haunts me every now and again.”

“Suicide is beneath you, John,” said Sherlock.

John couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He took a deep breath. “I told you once that you were the most important person to me, remember? And that you managed to save my life every day. Do you remember me saying that?” John turned to see Sherlock nod mutely.

The cab pulled up beside the kerb and the two men got out. John stood on the sidewalk and looked pointedly at Sherlock as the detective unlocked the door. “That was true as well.”

The two men made their way up the stairs without further discussion. They hung up their coats in silence. They sat. They listened to the clock tick in the kitchen.

Sherlock broke the silence. “I love you, John.”

John looked into Sherlock’s frank blue eyes and smiled sadly. “I love you too, you posh git.”

“All I was trying to do was save you back,” Sherlock explained. “You’ll recall that I said that you were the most precious person in my life. I was trying to preserve you, to prevent you from ever facing another firefight. I was only—“

“Sherlock,” John interrupted softly, “when we first met – as a matter of fact, the first day we met – your brother kidnapped me and made something blatantly clear: he said that I didn’t walk with a cane because I had terrible memories of the war. He said that I walked with a cane because I MISSED it.” Sherlock gazed at John, mesmerized. “Sherlock… he was right.”

John shook his head and said, “You can’t keep me from this, Sherlock. It’s what I was meant to do. It’s who I’m supposed to be. I have to have this. If you take it away… I will suffer for it.” John stood up, walked to Sherlock’s chair, and stood between the detective’s knees. “I understand why you don’t want me there, but damn it, Sherlock…” John reached out and touched his fingertips to Sherlock’s jawline. “My place is by your side. Always.”

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock softly on the mouth. Sherlock held John by the hips and pulled him gently toward him. John knelt on the chair cushion, between Sherlock’s right leg and the arm. As the kiss deepened, their tongues danced and slid together, heat spreading to their groins.

Sherlock snaked one hand into John’s hair, his other hand digging into John’s hip. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth as his hunger for him slowly burned him from inside. All the weeks of neglect had culminated into this act. It was an act of contrition on Sherlock’s part; an act of forgiveness on John’s. Once again they were demonstrating to one another that they were two sides of the same coin: inseparable and complimentary in their opposition.

“Bedroom,” said John into Sherlock’s neck, “Now, Sherlock.” He left a trail of hot kisses from Sherlock’s ear to his collarbone before pulling away. Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide and his lips were pink from their kiss. John couldn’t wait until they were swollen and Sherlock was writhing beneath him.

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom burst open and John was thrown against it, Sherlock pressing his full length against John, his mouth capturing the doctor’s in an impassioned kiss. “I really shouldn’t let you… be such a distraction to me… John…,” panted Sherlock between kisses. His hands were all over John’s torso, tugging up his jumper and his shirt, aching to touch the warm skin beneath.

“Oh God…,” said John. His breath hitched as Sherlock licked at the hollow just above his collarbone. “Sod the fucking case for a few hours, Sherlock… We both need this.” He carded his hands through Sherlock’s soft curls as Sherlock licked and bit at his right nipple. “Jesus fuck, Sherlock! So good… so fucking good.”

Sherlock licked and kissed his way down John’s chest, dipping his tongue into John’s navel. John sucked in a breath at the sensation and pulled his shirt and jumper off over his head and tossed them to the floor.

Sherlock unfastened John’s belt and trousers. John watched in fascination as Sherlock rubbed his face against John’s straining cock. The clothed contact and Sherlock’s hot breath caused John’s head to tilt back and an unadulterated moan to escape his lips, “Jesus… Oh God.”

Sherlock pulled on the waistband of John’s pants, causing his swollen cock to spring free. The head was already glistening with precum and Sherlock placed a tentative lick to the tip of John’s head and across his slit. John’s whole body shuddered with pleasure and anticipation of that warm wet mouth of Sherlock’s surrounding his hard prick.

As soon as the thought ran through his mind, that’s exactly what Sherlock did. John’s eyes flew wide as Sherlock’s gorgeous Cupid’s bow took in his length. He was struck dumb as he felt the softness of Sherlock’s lips caress his shaft, coaxing him to his ultimate climax.

But that was a long way off if John was any judge. Sherlock’s technique of swallowing him and then pulling off to stroke him was causing a slow burn in John’s loins. It was delicious. On the pull-off, Sherlock would watch John’s reaction with cold ice-blue eyes. John couldn’t look away.

When John could no longer stand it, he gently pulled Sherlock’s head away and up, bringing the detective to his feet. He placed a lingering kiss to his mouth, his tongue exploring the taste of himself mixed with Sherlock. Fucking heaven.

John removed the rest of his clothing and watched Sherlock as he did the same. Milky white skin was exposed in slow increments. Sherlock watched John as each piece of clothing hit the floor: shirt, button by button… belt, open and through the loops… the slow unbutton and zip of trousers… and the slow drop of trousers and pants to reveal the most perfect body John had ever laid eyes on – and he was a physician.

John’s mouth was watering to taste Sherlock. He pointed to the bed and Sherlock threw him a cocky grin. Sherlock stretched out on the bed. John positioned himself between Sherlock’s legs and rubbed his thighs, enjoying the play of anticipation on Sherlock’s face. His hard prick stood out from his body and John leaned over and gave the underside of his head a teasing lick.

Sherlock arched his back at the touch and pleaded: “John… God, John… Don’t tease me. Please.” John trailed small kisses and an occasional nibble down the insides of each of Sherlock’s thighs. “Oh Jesus… you fucking tease!” moaned Sherlock. John grinned against his alabaster skin.

He ended the slow torture by biting Sherlock’s hipbone and licking a stripe up the underside of his shaft. The delicious moan that came out of Sherlock was better than John could have hoped. John teased his frenulum with quick flicks of his tongue before wrapping his mouth around the head of Sherlock’s cock. He swirled his tongue around the head and across the slit before taking in as much of his shaft as possible. Again Sherlock moaned, “Shit, John… Ohhhh… How perfect… Son of a… John. God, John…Yesssss… Ah!”

John slowly sucked on Sherlock’s cock, occasionally humming his pleasure against the sensitive skin. He cupped and massaged Sherlock’s balls, causing the detective to writhe against his touch. This was better than John could have hoped. He had never seen Sherlock more defenseless, more human than this moment. And it was all because of plain old ordinary John. A swell of pride welled up inside the doctor as he pleasured his detective.

“John… oh God… I’m going to come, John,” Sherlock said, his voice at a much more sultry level than normal.

John pulled off of him and said, “Not without me, you’re not.” He crawled up Sherlock’s length and pressed their cocks together, holding them firmly in one hand.

“I can’t even come alone?” asked Sherlock teasingly.

“Not tonight, you can’t,” replied John, stroking them both with a confident hand. “Tonight you are all mine.”

Sherlock wrapped a long fingered hand around John’s and assisted him with his stroke. “I wouldn’t want to have it any other way, you gorgeous man,” said Sherlock.

“Gorgeous, eh?” asked John.

“Oh, yes, John,” said Sherlock. He placed his free hand behind John’s head and pulled him into a deep kiss. Between their tongues sliding against one another and the friction from their cocks, it wasn’t long before both men were at their limit.

A white-hot fire built up inside Sherlock and he felt his balls tighten before his release. John soon followed, cum covering both their hands and abdomen. Their panting breaths mingled together between last lingering kisses.

John rested his head against Sherlock’s left shoulder as the detective stroked his sweat-soaked hair with his left hand. “We should probably get cleaned up,” said john lazily, “but truth be told, I can’t be arsed.”

Sherlock let out a low chuckle and rubbed John’s back soothingly with his right hand. “I have to admit, I do like this,” he said, placing a small kiss to John’s forehead. John hummed his approval in response. “And to think,” added Sherlock with a wry grin, “I could have had this with Lestrade.”

John pulled his head up and away, shooting Sherlock a very confused look. “Excuse me?” he said.

Sherlock chuckled again and told John about what Greg said at the crime scene that day. When he had finished his tale, John said: “Well… let’s see how well this case goes. I do have to thank him for bringing us together, you know.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John and said, “Are you joking, John? You’re not seriously considering sleeping with Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard just to thank him for sending me an erroneous text message?”

“It’s true that that’s all he did, but in a way, that’s not all he did. Here we are,” reasoned John, “Besides, if we call his bluff and he backs out, it’ll be a good way for you to get your revenge on him for said erroneous text messages.”

“It would be an interesting experiment,” said Sherlock thoughtfully.

John giggled and buried his face into Sherlock’s neck. Life was really going to be interesting from here on out.


	4. Gentleman's Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are now a couple.
> 
> But they're looking to expand.

The case had concluded three months later. It was a merry goose chase, but Sherlock, John, and Greg Lestrade triumphed. Greg was especially pleased as it was he who found the clue that wound up being the loose thread that unraveled the mystery. The victims’ families had closure and the missing paintings were returned unharmed.

The success had caused the chief superintendant to issue a special commendation for Greg – and more importantly – a pay raise. Feeling generous, Greg invited John and Sherlock out to dinner – his treat.

The restaurant was wonderful, the food delicious, the wine plentiful, and the company pleasant, despite Sherlock deducing everything about their attractive waiter and practically every patron in the place. After the afters, John invited Greg back to Baker Street explaining that he and Sherlock had bought him a bottle of wine to celebrate. Greg agreed and smiled gratefully.

Halfway drunk already, it was no trouble if Greg wanted to stay at 221B either. John offered up his old room to him, to which Greg raised a curious eyebrow. John informed Greg of his new relationship with Sherlock and that the upstairs bedroom was now no longer in use.

“How long has this been going on then?” asked Greg when they were enjoying the wine in 221B.

“Since this last case began,” answered John, eyeing his detective from across the room.

“Congratulations, mates,” said Greg, raising his glass to them, “A toast then. To love.” The toast was echoed by the other two men. As Sherlock drank, Greg leaned over to John who sat on the sofa next to him and whispered, “And best of bloody luck too.”

John laughed. “Actually, I was under the impression that you had set your sights on him yourself,” he said.

Greg sputtered on his wine. “What?”

“So it’s not true,” said John, “You didn’t flirt with my boyfriend a few months back.”

“I flirted… with Sherlock Holmes?” asked Greg incredulously.

“Didn’t you?” asked Sherlock, amused by Greg’s reaction. Perhaps Sherlock would have revenge after all. Although, he could have sworn that the police detective did have his eyes on him. Sherlock thought that he was especially noticeable in the past few weeks.

“Well… no,” said Greg.

“Gregory Lestrade, you are an unconvincing liar,” said Sherlock.

“Alright, alright,” Greg conceded, “I’ll admit to… an attraction.” He turned to John and said, “But can you blame me? I mean – look at him!”

John nodded and smiled. “I do see what you mean, Greg.” John leaned in conspiratorially and said, “You should see him naked.”

Greg smirked evilly. “Jesus, I’d love to.” He laughed. “But small chance of that, eh?” He took another sip of wine and John looked at Sherlock meaningfully. Sherlock gave him a small warm smile and nodded.

Picking up on the silent signaling, Greg looked from Sherlock to John and back again. “What?” he asked, a tone of warning in his voice.

“What do you think?” John said to Greg, placing a warm hand on his knee.

Greg couldn’t have been more shocked – or pleased. He looked at Sherlock.

“Well,” said the detective coolly, “It is a perfect way to end the evening. Especially on the heels of such a successful case.”

Heat spread to Greg’s groin as he looked at Sherlock’s wicked grin. Greg licked his lips. His palms were a bit sweaty and he knew that his breath had changed. No doubt his brown-black eyes had gotten just a bit darker with lust. He felt John’s breath at his left ear as the doctor whispered seductively, “Do whatever you like. Just let me watch.”

Greg turned to John. Their breath mingled as their lips barely touched. Greg swallowed hard and said, “Alright… but you can’t be out of it forever.” He looked shamelessly at John’s mouth and added: “Truth be told, I’ve been wondering what you taste like, doctor.”

John’s eyes went wide and he flicked a glance at Sherlock. The detective grinned widely and rose from his chair. He sat on the coffee table in front of both of them and said, “Kiss him, John. Give him a taste of things to come.”

Warm skin touched his and Greg’s breath hitched. What was happening right now was completely surreal. No man on earth is this fucking fortunate. Greg slid his tongue against John’s lips and John’s mouth opened, his slick tongue barely brushing Greg’s. More warmth spread to his crotch as Greg tilted his head and deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue into John’s hot mouth. He grazed John’s teeth with his tongue, tasting the doctor, learning exactly how he would like to be kissed. John was doing the same. Christ, John was good at this.

John pulled away slowly and Greg let out a moan of displeasure. “Addictive, isn’t he?” asked Sherlock. The detective’s eyes had blown wide with desire as he watched his lover pleasure Greg.

“Jesus, yes,” said Greg, a bit breathless. John was giving him a hungry stare that he couldn’t look away from – that is, until Sherlock said: “My turn.”

Sherlock leaned in and captured Greg’s mouth, pressing him into the sofa back. The detective’s kiss was chaste at first. He pulled away after a moment and nipped at Greg’s bottom lip. As Greg gave a small cry of surprise, Sherlock took advantage of Greg’s open mouth and tasted the police detective deeply.

John watched this with fascination. There was no denying that Sherlock was an amazing kisser, but to see him kiss Greg Lestrade full-on and within a foot of his face was an experience beyond description. He wanted to see more. On impulse, John leaned in and placed a soft kiss just below Greg’s ear. He was rewarded with a moan of pleasure. He stroked Greg’s hair with one hand and Sherlock’s with the other while continuing to press kisses to Greg’s neck.

Sherlock felt Greg’s hands on his hips as he leaned into him. John was running a hand through his hair and his own hands were occupied with wrapping themselves about Greg’s torso, hands running up and down his chest. He knelt with one knee on the sofa for balance, but his real concentration was taken up with the occupation of kissing Detective Inspector Lestrade.

It was an indisputable fact that Gregory Lestrade was a handsome man. His intense stare was enough to get Sherlock’s attention at the worst of times, but now, pressed close and tasting him, Sherlock couldn’t get enough. He loved John Watson, but he wanted Greg Lestrade. He flicked his tongue against Greg’s playfully which made Greg moan. So the detective liked to be teased? Good. That’s very good.

The taste of Sherlock was marvelous. Jesus… Tea, tobacco… and something that was all Sherlock. And what a tongue! Greg sunk his fingers into Sherlock’s hips when John started kissing at his neck and running his fingers through his hair. And then Sherlock began to tease him with his tongue, making Greg want to chase it back into his mouth – which he did eventually. Jesus fuck, what perfection.

John’s trousers were becoming a bit uncomfortable. He pulled away from Greg’s neck long enough to shift his weight a bit, giving him a bit more room. But as soon as his eyes returned to the two men, a new burst of heat and tightness spread to his groin. Their kiss became sloppy and loose after a few seconds and John could see their tongues flick against one another from their open mouths until that’s all the kiss became. “Bedroom, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Oh fuck yes,” said Greg through swollen wet wanton lips, his voice low and gravelly, and his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s bedroom had never been so occupied. John took a seat in the only chair in the room and faced it toward the bed. He crossed his arms and watched the other two men carefully, a small smile crossing his lips.

Sherlock closed the door behind them as Greg passed a look to John that asked: are you sure? John nodded and Greg smiled at him lovingly, thanking him for his generosity. “Oh please,” said Sherlock, “John doesn’t control who I fuck. It’s just that we normally only fuck each other and we have the common sense and good grace to consult with one another when we wish to branch out. You don’t need his permission, per se. Call it a ‘gentleman’s agreement’. Now… do you top or bottom?”

The conversation took such a quick turn at the end that Greg’s brain took a moment to sort it all out. “Er…,” he began awkwardly, “I’m a bottom, I suppose. Although I’ve done both. But as it’s my first time with you…” and here he looked at John, “…and you… I suppose I’d like to bottom. I’m a bit of a control freak about these things.”

“I understand,” said Sherlock and he moved forward to place a chaste but passionate kiss to the DI’s lips. This bloomed into something quite a bit more and John subconsciously tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as he watched Sherlock’s violinist hands work their way down the spine of the detective inspector. Those hands didn’t stop at Greg’s waist. They lightly caressed past his belt, down his trousers, and along the curve of Greg’s beautiful arse.

There was only an inch difference in height between the two men and Sherlock used his hand placement as an opportunity for a bit of frottage. He pressed his pelvis into Greg’s and instantly felt Greg’s hardness against his thigh. Sherlock angled his hips better and soon both of their erections came into contact. Both men made guttural noises and John saw Sherlock’s grip tighten on Greg’s arse as he moved them both together.

Greg broke the kiss and trailed small kisses along Sherlock’s jawline and down his elegant neck. God damn. Greg had been wanting to do that for ages. Sherlock’s skin was warm as he licked and sucked his way to the man’s collarbone, his hips grinding into Sherlock’s and creating a warm pleasure throughout his body.

Greg gave Sherlock’s collarbone a last nip and looked over at John who was watching them with avid interest, his own erection becoming obvious to all of them. As they ground their hips together, each man held the other’s arse and both looked at John, watching him watching them. Not breaking eye contact with John, Greg said to Sherlock, “You have a very understanding boyfriend, Sherlock.”

“I have a very kinky boyfriend, Gregory,” replied Sherlock. Sherlock asked John: “Any orders, Captain?”

John smirked as he watched them. “You’re doing fine as you are,” he replied calmly. “I’ll let you know if there’s something I’d like to see.”

Greg and Sherlock smiled at John and then turn back to each other. Resuming their kissing once more, they began to pull at each other’s clothing. Shirts became untucked and unbuttoned. Trousers were opened, erections springing out, straining their pants. Eventually the men broke apart to remove all their clothes. They stood a foot apart from one another, staring at each other’s naked form. Both gave a glance to John, but he was lost in his own thoughts, staring at them with wonder in his cobalt eyes.

Slowly, Greg and Sherlock moved together. Sherlock placed his right hand on Greg’s neck and the other on his hip. Greg swallowed hard and licked his lips (suddenly his mouth was so dry) and placed his hands against Sherlock’s chest. Their mouths met. Their bodies pressed. Arms slowly snaked around each other as the kiss became more intimate, more seductive.

John’s cock was fairly aching right then, but he didn’t care. He just watched in fascination as his lover slowly tongue-fucked the life out of Greg Lestrade. As their heads switched places in the kiss, John could see two pink tongues tangled up with one another. With the only light in the room being the bedside lamp on the other side of Greg and Sherlock, John could only see a burst of light every now and again come from between the two men as they moved together. Light traced shadows against a collarbone here, the line of a hip there; it was like watching a fucking movie scene. Son of a…

Greg broke off the kiss, causing Sherlock to lean in toward him for more. Greg threw him a smirk and walked backward toward the bed. Positioning himself in the middle of the mattress, Greg motioned for Sherlock to lie down. Sherlock complied and soon Greg was placing kisses and nips along the inside of Sherlock’s thighs, causing the detective to moan and jump.

John could only see Sherlock’s face and the gorgeous arse of Gregory Lestrade from where he was sitting. It was a bad angle now. He got up and stood beside the bed, watching Greg nuzzle at Sherlock’s balls. Sherlock reached out a hand toward John and John linked his fingers with Sherlock’s. They shared a loving look just as Greg licked a stripe up Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s eyes flew open and a moan escaped his lips.

“He likes his head worked a bit before you swallow him,” advised John. Greg smiled his thanks and let his tongue drag over Sherlock’s slit. He trailed his tongue around the crown and flicked at the frenulum until he was certain that Sherlock was half mad. Slowly, achingly, he sucked in Sherlock’s head, allowing his tongue to play all over the sensitive skin as he took more and more of the detective’s length into his mouth.

John watched as Greg’s mouth slowly sank down on Sherlock’s hard cock. He bent down to get a proper angle on it, practically placing his head on Sherlock’s hip. Greg’s eyes met John’s and held as Greg sucked Sherlock off. Sherlock let out little moans and his hips began to buck with the slow rhythm Greg was creating. Greg cupped Sherlock’s balls and gave them a small squeeze. Sherlock damn near growled in response.

Greg grinned around Sherlock’s cock and John had never seen anything more glorious. “Jesus, Greg,” said John, “You are so fucking good at sucking cock.” It was as if he didn’t have any gag reflex at all; he just took in his length like it was no big deal. John couldn’t wait to have Greg suck him off too.

John’s trousers were at critical now. He needed to get out of them soon; the restriction of the fabric was too much. Sherlock pulled at John’s hand. John leaned over Sherlock and kissed him passionately. Sherlock reached up and held John’s head to deepen the kiss. The combined sensations of kissing John and having his dick sucked were almost overwhelming. If he had no self control, he would have came just from that.

“John,” said Sherlock, “You are wearing entirely too much clothing.”

Greg pulled off of Sherlock’s cock to add: “I agree.” He stroked Sherlock and grinned up at John, mouth wet from his ministrations. He looked absolutely debauched.

“Two against one, eh?” said John playfully as he began to remove his clothes.

“I’m learning to like those odds,” said Greg. Both Sherlock and Greg watched John strip off. Greg wasn’t expecting John to have such length. Girth, sure… but he was at least two inches longer than Greg expected. “Fuck me,” he said under his breath.

“What do you think I have planned?” asked John. He went to the bedside table and brought out condoms and some lube.

“So you’re both gonna fuck me, eh?” asked Greg.

“No,” said John, “I’m going to fuck you. You’re going to fuck Sherlock.”

“At the same time?” asked Greg. He was a bit out of his depth with all this threesome business.

John nodded. “Just keep sucking him off. We’ll work up to it.” He turned to Sherlock. “You alright, love?”

“Fine, John,” said Sherlock, letting out a breath as Greg resumed his fellating. “Only come here. Let me suck you off,” he said.

John crawled onto the mattress, placed his knees below Sherlock’s armpits, and leaned forward, gripping the headboard. John’s hard aching cock was a mere inch from Sherlock’s waiting mouth and Sherlock teased the tip of his cock with his tongue. “Bastard,” accused John and Sherlock smiled.

Greg looked up the length of Sherlock’s torso to see John’s muscular arse, dangling cock and balls, and Sherlock’s mouth ready for the swallow. Oh sweet weeping Jesus… if he wasn’t hard before, he sure as hell was now. Sherlock took John in his mouth and Greg enjoyed the view of his neck muscles working to move his head, his amazing cupid’s bow wrapped around John’s shaft and the arch of John’s back at the sensation of it all. Greg moved his hands all around Sherlock’s thighs, over his balls, and across his abdomen, until he pulled off and fisted Sherlock’s prick, licking at the head of his cock, swirling his tongue around and around.

“Hand me the lube, Sherlock,” said Greg, his lust overriding his systems. A hand reached out toward the bedside table and threw the bottle toward Greg. He slicked up his right hand with lube, sucked down on Sherlock, and circled his hole in the same rhythm that he sucked. Sherlock bucked and moaned, fairly crying out at the touch.

He pulled off of John’s cock long enough to say, “In, Greg… push in… need it… please.”

John turned around to watch Greg work a slicked up finger into Sherlock. As his finger pressed in, John looked to Sherlock who was humming low against his cock. The sensation was breathtaking. Sherlock’s hands were on his cock and his arse, cupping his balls and splaying across his low back. He was sucking John’s dick with abandon.

Greg decided Sherlock needed two fingers when he saw him start to suck off John at a break-neck pace. Sherlock’s hips started to buck erratically. Greg was surprised he held on for this long. He inserted the second finger slowly, allowing for Sherlock to adjust, but the detective would have none of it. His body just bucked a bit harder, attempting to impale himself on Greg’s fingers.

Greg curved his fingers just so and brushed Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock pulled off of John and cried out. John smirked at Sherlock’s writhing form. He repositioned himself off of Sherlock and bent down to kiss him. Sherlock’s bruising kiss came as a bit of a surprise, but then, Sherlock had never been touched by two men at once before. John couldn’t wait until it was his turn. But right now, he had other things to deal with.

“Fuck him, Greg,” said John. “Here. Prop him up with this.” He handed Greg a pillow which Greg folded in half and stuffed under Sherlock’s uplifted hips. John passed Greg a condom and said, “Fuck him slowly. He’ll bitch, but he really loves it.”

“Oh fucking hell,” said Sherlock.

John winked at Greg, “Trust me.”

Greg smirked and rolled on the condom. He coated himself and Sherlock with lube and placed himself at Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock let out a hiss at the pressure when Greg pressed into him.

‘Slowly… slowly…,” advised John as he watched Greg disappear inside of Sherlock. “Jesus Christ, how fucking gorgeous is that?” he said.

Greg’s eyes rolled into the back of his head at the tight heat. “Fuck… Sherlock… Christ, you are so fucking tight, man.”

“It’s fantastic, isn’t it?” asked John, enjoying the look on Greg’s face. “Now get balls deep, and fuck him slow for a few.”

“I want to suck you off,” said Greg to John. “Just a taste. Please.”

Shocked wonder crossed John’s features, but he stood to face Greg, one foot on either side of Sherlock’s chest. John could feel Sherlock rubbing his legs as Greg placed his mouth around his cock. Instantly Greg let out a hum of pleasure. Pulling off quickly, he said, “I knew you’d taste amazing, John. Jesus…” 

“More,” John moaned and Greg dipped his head toward John’s cock once more. “Can you deep throat?” John asked quickly.

“Yeah,” said Greg. “No gag reflex. You can face fuck me if you like.”

“Not something I like doing, but if you don’t mind… and it’s not going to hurt you,” said John.

“Try me,” said Greg, giving John a playful grin.

John slowly placed his length into Greg’s mouth. Seeing as it caused him no trouble at all, John began to slowly fuck Greg’s mouth. He gripped the sides of Greg’s head loosely and fucked him as Greg fucked Sherlock beneath him.

“He has an extraordinary talent. Don’t you agree, John?” purred Sherlock as he watched his lover come undone and felt himself get expertly fucked.

“Oh God yes…” said John, panting with his rhythm. “I could so have you suck my cock every fucking night, Greg.”

“Me too,” said Sherlock. “Oh Christ, John… His cock feels wonderful too.”

Greg hummed his pleasure around John and the doctor let out a loud moan. Before he lost his load down Greg’s throat, John decided to change position again. He pulled away from Greg’s hot mouth and hopped off the bed momentarily to put on a condom and slick himself up.

“Push his knees to the mattress and get more on top of him,” instructed John. Without leaving Sherlock’s entrance, Greg reached underneath Sherlock’s knees and pressed them down to either side of Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his legs and held them there. At this angle, Greg could get even deeper, pushing up against Sherlock’s prostate with almost every stroke. This also had Greg on all fours above Sherlock, positioning him perfectly for John to get behind him.

John grabbed Greg’s arse and spread his cheeks wide. He tentatively licked at Greg’s opening and heard him cry out with pleasure at the sensation. Slowly he circled the tip of his tongue around the entrance until finally plunging it in. Greg was fucking Sherlock so slowly it was practically torture, but it allowed for John to explore Greg’s hole with his tongue to the point that Greg was actually calling out John’s name in frustration: “Christ John! Shit! Fuck me… goddamn it… Fuck me! John… please.”

John slipped in a lubed-up finger. And then a second. Greg cried out at the pressure, but soon relaxed around it. “Better give me three, John,” said Greg, panting. He was about to burst. “You’ve got some girth to you.” John agreed and a third finger went inside the detective inspector.

Each thrust forward into Sherlock brought a certain set of sensations to Greg: heat, slick tightness. Each thrust backward impaled Greg on John’s fingers and a new set of sensations emerged: pressure, the spark that emerged whenever his prostate was hit. It was all so overwhelming. Eventually Greg was reduced to unintelligible moans. He could only imagine what it would be like when John entered him.

He didn’t have to imagine for long.

John placed himself at Greg’s entrance, planning to allow Greg to slowly impale himself with every backward push of his hips. They had to take it even slower than before. Sherlock was almost ready to tear the bed apart; he wanted to come so badly. John was aching too, but he had to wait for Greg. Greg himself was long gone before this.

Eventually, John was buried balls-deep inside of Greg and they found a rhythm that allowed them to speed up a bit. It was such a relief to be fucked and to be able to fuck. The tension built while getting positioned was agonizing, but ultimately worth it. Especially for Greg.

Greg’s senses reeled. Between fucking Sherlock – which, let’s face it, had been a fantasy of his for ages – and being fucked by the gorgeous cock of one Doctor John Watson, it was all Greg could do to balance on all fours and thrust in any kind of a conceivable direction. The room was filled with the sounds of all three men thoroughly enjoying the fuck and the slick wet slap of skin on skin.

John had a hold of Greg’s hips and rode the DI, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of being buried deep inside him. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his. His eyes opened to meet Sherlock’s. “Come with me… John…” he panted, “Please.”

John’s balls tightened at this and he knew he was close. His thrusts into Greg became more urgent. Greg’s thrusts into Sherlock responded in kind. It was an odd rhythm, but as it intensified, all three men felt the pressure build inside until Sherlock cried out first: “Oh fuck! YES!” and all three of them came one after the other: John came next, moaning out both Sherlock and Greg’s names. Greg was past the point of language. He grunted out a hard staccato as he spent himself inside of Sherlock.

Greg held himself up on all fours as John collapsed against him. His arms only lasted for a few more moments before Greg sank his head down on Sherlock’s heaving chest, followed by the rest of his body. All three of them spent the next few minutes catching their breath and enjoying the sweet sensation of their release.

John pulled out of Greg slowly and on slightly wobbly legs, went off to the toilet to get a flannel. Greg leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s neck. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he said, still a bit breathless and more than a little knackered. Greg pulled out of Sherlock slowly and sat up on his heels. John came back in and handed each of them a flannel. Sherlock and Greg had cum all over their stomachs.

Tossing the flannels to the floor, all three men crawled under the duvet, Greg in the middle. The DI looked to Sherlock on his right and John on his left and gave them a lazy happy grin. “Thank you both. Best. Sex. Ever.” He closed his eyes contentedly.

Greg felt two separate arms wrap around his torso. “I would agree with that statement,” said John. Sherlock just hummed his assent. “Shall we consider this a gentleman’s agreement, then?” asked John, his eyes closed in sleep, “Between the three of us, I mean?”

“What about tonight’s activities makes either of you think that I’m any kind of a gentleman?” asked Greg jokingly.

John smiled. Sherlock chuckled. “Good point,” said Sherlock.

“Seriously though,” said Greg soberly, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling, “I don’t want to come between you two. I mean… if you’re serious about one another…”

“No worries, Greg,” said John. “I think we can discuss this further in the morning, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Greg softly, “Alright.” Greg looked over at Sherlock. It seemed the detective was fast asleep. Greg smiled and closed his eyes again. He was going to be sore tomorrow, but it was completely worth it.

“You know,” whispered Sherlock. Greg started awake. He was just drifting off. Greg heard John’s soft snore as Sherlock continued: “He only just wants you to be here for a round of morning sex.”

Greg turned to Sherlock and licked at the detective’s mouth. “I don’t see you stopping him.”

Sherlock kept his eyes shut, smiled and said, “Go to sleep, Gregory.”


End file.
